


Impossible Coincidences

by IWantYouInMyLife



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, First Meetings, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Kidnapping, Magic, Multi, Polyamory, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Spark Stiles Stilinski, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-15 21:23:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18677635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IWantYouInMyLife/pseuds/IWantYouInMyLife
Summary: What were the odds of Stiles being kidnapped by the same person who also kidnapped his three soulmates?





	Impossible Coincidences

The irony of the situation isn't lost on Stiles.

For all of his life, he felt dislocated—detached from others in such a profound way that it barely made enough sense to satisfy his never-ending curiosity. It's weird, to be honest. If nothing else, Stiles should be able to maintain one fucking friendship, right?

Yet, almost as if the gods are mocking Stiles' desire to forge connections, in a bizarre, terrible twist of fate, his unsung prayers are answered in the form of Katherine Marie Argent.

She strikes fast and hard. Out of nowhere, too.

There's no preamble, no feelings of being watched, no weird dreams or raised hairs on his arms, only the same old tiredness weighing down his bones as he walks the blocks that separate the coffee shop where he works from his dormitory. One second his mind is filled with an ever-growing list of papers he needs to write, books he needs to read, and foods he really needs to buy, and the next second Stiles is being grabbed in the middle of the street and pushed inside a van—then there's a pinch in the back of his neck and nothing else.

Blackness.

When Stiles wakes up, the others are already there. He is the last one to arrive. Late to the party, Lydia mocks several weeks later. Stiles doesn't know any of these people—much like his kidnap, his awakening is abrupt and immediate. He's asleep, and suddenly he isn't, opening his eyes in a strange room while lying down on a thin mattress.

"I think he's awake." Stiles hears a girl say, although no one is in his line of sight.

He sits up, his eyes scanning the small space to see three other people staring at him, waiting to see what he would do. Two girls, one guy. Sitting together on the only other bed in the room, side by side. They all look about his age, although their wary, tired faces could be a factor in aging them. Still, they are all gorgeous, he notices. Weirdly, out-of-normal beautiful. Even the situation isn't enough to distract Stiles from that fact.

"Where am I?" Stiles asks, a sense of foreboding growing inside his chest as all the files he had ever read from his dad's station begin to go through his head, one followed by the next. He knows what those faces mean, even without the thick ropes binding the guy's hands together.

"We don't know," the girl with black hair says, shaking her head. "She's good. Takes us and just dumps us here. Unconscious. It's a house, we think, and we're definitely in a basement of some sort."

"She? Who? The woman who kidnapped us? Any of you know her?"

"Argent," the guy curses, the disgust and rage clear in his voice. "Kate Argent."

"I… have no idea who that is," Stiles admits, beyond confused by the whole situation. Had the woman just grabbed him randomly? "Maybe she got the wrong person?"

The girls share a knowing look that makes Stiles backtrack—they obviously knew something he didn't.

"No," the guy denies, looking down at his hands. "It's not a coincidence that she chose you. A magic user, too."

Okay, what sort of freaks had this Kate Argent woman dumped him with? "Magic user? Is this some sort of code around here? 'Cause, dude, I do _not_ understand what you mean by that," He explains, speaking slowly to see if it helped them understand his point.

The other girl, who had yet to say anything, narrows her green eyes at him. "A witch, a magic user, whatever you call yourself. We know—you don't have to pretend here," she says, high-pitched and not without a hint of frustration in her voice. "It's not like we're in a position to tell anyone else."

Stiles rubs his eyes, trying to see if perhaps things started to make sense once he was not half-asleep. "Look, I don't know what you're talking about. I don't care what this Argent creep told you guys—this whole situation is the closest I've had to a magical experience, and let me tell you, it's not nice."

"He's not lying," the guy says, and this time he sounds pitying.

Green-eyed girl pursues her lips, seeming personally attacked by Stiles' ignorance. "Great, another round of this."

"Shut up, Lydia. We were the ones who had to put up with your screams."

"Can someone please explain this shit to me!" Stiles half-yells, throwing his hands up in frustration. What's up with these people? Can't they see that Stiles has no idea what they are talking about?

"I'm Scott," the guy with the crooked jaw introduces himself, and then he looks right at Stiles' eyes as his eyes bleed golden. Bright fucking golden. Unnaturally golden. "I'm a werewolf," he adds, like it isn't a big deal. A huge deal. The biggest deal ever. "This is Lydia—she's a banshee," he points to the strawberry blond and then to the brunet. "And this's Allison. She's a hunter."

_Fuck._

What sort of drug had that woman injected in his bloodstream?

* * *

It takes them hours to explain the supernatural world to him—mainly because Stiles has hundreds of questions for every new information they share—, but it doesn't matter much, he supposes. They have nothing if not time. It's better that he gathers all the facts anyway.

"You smell of electricity and... smoke, I guess? It's definitely not a human scent. I know a druid, though, and he doesn't smell like you, man, so you gotta be something else," Scott says, and weirdly enough, Stiles feels a sparkle of approval running through his body at the words, as though his insides recognizes the truth of the words. Electricity and smoke. Hun, that sounds quite right.

"Is that why we're all here?" Stiles asks. "She's hunting supernatural creatures, beings, people, whatever?"

"We think so," Allison agrees, bobbing her head up and down, and it's borderline cute, which isn't an adjective Stiles normally uses with adults, but damn if she doesn't look like a Disney princess even in that place. "I mean, what are the odds?"

"We don't have much to base our assumptions on, though," Lydia says. "It's not like whoever is keeping us here had the guts to show up here personally. The others mention her in passing, but so far all we could get was a name. Why? You think that it could be something else?"

"No, this isn't a coincidence. I mean, one's an incident, two's a coincidence, three's a pattern... four? Four is just more evidence," Stiles says, his father's words leaving behind a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. "What could she possibly want with a beta werewolf who cannot turn anyone, a hunter who doesn't hunt, a newly discovered banshee, and a guy who wasn't even aware of his fucking powers until right now?"

No one has an answer to his question, so they all remain silent, searching for clues in each other's eyes, hoping beyond hope that the moment of concentration would ignite a memory, an idea, anything really. And it's while they are holding this complete silent, that Stiles remembers the most useless fact possible, with enough strength to almost force a smile on his face.

"Shit," he curses, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Angry-eyebrows dude is gonna be so pissed."

"Who?" Lydia asks, clearly questioning his sanity.

"Angry-eyebrows dude," Stiles explains, snorting a chuckle. "He's a customer. Comes every day to the coffee shop before going to the gym, at 9 am sharp, asks for a Vanilla Latte, and always looks like he wants to murder everyone in the vicinity with his death stares." He rolls his eyes. "Guys has zero patient. Whenever I'm not the one working when he comes, he complains that his shit is not done right, even though we all do the same fucking Latte."

"Oh my God! I know him!" Allison exclaims, nearly falling off the bed in her excitement. "Derek runs with me on the gym. It's like clockwork—every day, without fail, he'll be stepping into the same treadmill, at 9:30 am. We both go pretty hard, for way longer than most of the others, so over the months we ended up running side by side, at the ones in the back. Green eyes, crazy expressive eyebrows, built like a brick, wears a ring on his left hand?"

"Yes! That's him. Angry-eyebrows dude."

Allison grins. "Do you call him that to his face?"

Stiles is the picture of innocence. "Of course not."

"You're insane," she adds, but Stiles likes to believe she looks impressed. "Derek's scary. I mean, we're practically running buddies, and we haven't exchanged more than a hundred words in all this time. He just makes a whole lot of facial expressions and kicks anyone who tries to steal one of our treadmills away."

"Derek Hale?" Lydia interrupts, raising one hand. She waits until Allison nods in agreement to add. "He's in some of my classes at MIT. We've studied together for some of our exams. He's doing a Master in Mechanical Engineering."

"That's weird," Allison says what they are all thinking. "Do you know him?" She asks Scott.

Scott's gone pale—like he's seen a ghost. "He's my neighbor," he informs. "He moved a couple of weeks before I was taken. Lived at the flat across the hall..." His voice dies out, but the meaning is clear.

"You think he's the guy kidnapping us?" Allison asks, cautious. "I mean, why would he do that?"

"I dunno," Stiles said slowly. "But it has to mean something."

"It does," Scott adds, raising his eyes from the floor. "Derek's a werewolf." He drops the bomb.

" _Shit._ "

Allison's eyes widen. "Scott, does that mean-"

But Lydia interrupts her, staring right at Stiles. "There's something else," she says, sounding careful, as though she is consciously choosing each word. "Something you should know."

"Lydia," Scott warns, tensing, his jaw clenched, and Stiles has had enough of them.

"Tell me," he orders, ignoring Scott frowning at him and Allison's meaningful silence. His attention is all on Lydia, and her green eyes, and the way her hands are twitching in place, and the way she's grabbing the hem of the sleeve of her shirt and rolling it up.

It's her right arm. Lydia is trying to show Stiles her upper-arm. Of her right arm. No. It couldn't be.

Stiles has to be wrong. He has to. There's no way that she's his-

But he knows. Even before she finishes it, displaying the two black bands tattoed around her arm, Stiles mind starts to scream that it's no coincidence that he is trapped in that room with those people, and the mark only served to prove him right.

"You've seen mine," Stiles says, and it isn't a question. He can see it in her eyes—Lydia is perfectly aware of his soulmate mark.

"We had to make sure," she agrees, not even bothering to pretend to be regretful.

Stiles finally found his soulmate, after years of wondering if he was one of those people who would never meet their other half, and it's a banshee, a gorgeous girl who could probably wipe the floor with his face if she wanted to, and he's divided. It's glorious, but the way she said it….

"We?" He whispers, hoping that the words will get lost in the space between them and no one will answer the question.

No such luck.

"About that…" Allison begins, a guilty look on her eyes. She's tense still, waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Stiles, I-" Only she gives up mid-sentence, shaking her head. "Fuck it."

With that, she shoves her sleeve up, not bothering with any niceties and sure enough, there it was, the same mark, black against her white skin. It's such a simple mark, and yet, in that moment, it seems huge. Enough to open a gaping hole in Stiles' chest, 'cause he can tell they aren't over.

There's more to come. There has to be.

As if on command, Stiles' eyes slide to Scott, and he raises an eyebrow, silently asking the question hanging in the air. In response, Scott's eyes flashes, bleeding golden and staying that way.

When he speaks, his voice is rough. "If you want to see my arm, you'll have to lift my shirt yourself," he said, wiggling his arms to remind Stiles that his wrists are tied.

It isn't necessary. By then, he already knows what he will find, but Stiles has no impulse control, and the curiosity burns hot in the back of his mind, strong enough to overpower any last inch of self-restraint he might have had. Without permission, his legs carry him to the other side of the room, until he stands over Scott, looking down at those predator's eyes.

"Careful," Scott warns, and Stiles's unsure what he means by that.

Stiles has his own warning to give. "Not really good at being careful," he admits, and proves it by reaching for Scott's shirt straight away, moving the fabric away until he can confirm his wildest beliefs.

When his eyes land on the black marks, it's almost as if a shock goes down his spine. This isn't normal. It's not supposed to happen like that for soulmates. Stiles can feel three pairs of eyes on him, waiting for his reaction, for him to say what he thinks of it, something. Anything.

It's madness.

What were the odds of Stiles being kidnapped by the same person who also kidnapped his three soulmates? Even the idea of the math gives him a headache.

Stiles' knees threaten to give out, and that's when his tongue unsticks from the roof of his mouth. "Well, this definitely isn't a coincidence, hun?" He jokes weakly, hoping his voice isn't as shaky as he thinks it is. "So...any ideas on how to get the hell out of here?"

Scott answering grin is cutting. "What? Not a fan of our accommodation?"

The girls look equally as sharp, and, yeah, good. Fucking finally, actually. 

Stiles can work with that.

**Author's Note:**

> There it is: the story about them being kidnapped that literally nobody asked for and yet I wrote it nevertheless. Enjoy. Xoxo.


End file.
